


The Time That Passed

by FrozenInSpace



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Brotherly Love, Depression, Fighting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Sex Jokes, athos is a badass, happy-ish ending, oh the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenInSpace/pseuds/FrozenInSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long one-shot that fills in the gap between the events at La Fere and their meeting d'Artagnan, or rather 'how Athos learnt to trust his friends and got drunk a lot along the way".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time That Passed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! As a massive Athos fan, I decided to write this: not meant to be read as slash, but there is always the possibility that the shippers find something!  
> Trigger warnings for alcoholism, slight reference to suicide, stitches and violence.

La Fère, April 1624

He'd left her hanging on a branch, a rope around her neck. He might as well have put it there himself, considering that he'd ordered her execution. He'd clung to the belief that he had had no choice, that he was doing the right thing; after all, the woman he.....still loved was a criminal and had killed his brother.  
This was what had been going through Athos' head as he rode away from everything he'd ever known – he knew that he could never make peace with the past, with the atrocious act he'd committed a person about whom he'd cared deeply for to, but he could at least leave it all behind.  
He spent the next fortnight in a drunken stupor, wandering from one public house to the next. But no matter how much wine or Armagnac he drank, all he could see behind his eye was her face, Anne's face, screaming at him that she'd done no wrong.  
It was on the fifteenth day of his drinking that he at least arrived in Paris, having stopped at almost every inn on the way; some days, he hadn't been able to move, while others had left him jittery, slamming his fists against the walls and smashing empty wine bottles until he climbed onto his horse and rode off.  
He entered a small inn, about a fifteen minute walk from Notre Dame and even less to the musketeers' garrison, where he promptly ordered a bottle of their cheapest wine (disgusting, but it did the job) and sat down in the far corner, consuming it rapidly. It was there that he realised that he was being watched, by almost every patron, but particularly by one fellow, a broad, dark-skinned man wearing the pauldron of the Musketeers' guards themselves. He seemed an unlikely candidate for such an honoured position, but Athos was in no place to judge. After all, that had been his original plan – a new start that he could use to help people, to capture women like......he couldn't even say her name. But now he realised that he wasn't suitable. He was too flawed, too drunk to be one of their number. Instead, he'd just drink himself into an early grave.  
It was here that the large fellow came over to his table.  
“Don't you think you've had enough there, mon ami?” He seemed to be smiling, but something about him radiated concern.  
“I'm quite alright, thank you. Please, leave me in peace.” Athos went to stand up, but instead collapsed back down into the chair.  
“Yeah, no. No more for you, mate. Where are you staying?”  
“Here. And I said, leave me alone.” He tried to stand again, this time succeeding, and drew his sword, a fine 1610 rapier with his initials cast into the grip, and pointed it at the man, his back straightening as he got into a fighting stance. It was here that all Hell broke loose.  
He swung the sword at the Musketeer, who ducked efficiently out of the way, except for the fact that he slammed into a table. The patrons there reacted angrily, beginning a brawl, while Athos and the man made their way outside for a duel.  
“Good sword-work there – you a son of the nobility?”  
“And what is it to you, Musketeer?” The word came out more bitter than expected.  
“The name's Porthos. And nothing, I was just thinking 'bout introducing you to my captain, M. de Treville. He's currently looking to increase our number, and prior training is a must.”  
“I'm not good enough.”  
“I doubt that. Now, let's sober you up – you can stay with me for the night.”  
“But....”  
“No buts. I just got your sorry arse out of a brawl, it's the least you can do.”  
Going with the strange man was the best decision Athos ever made.

Paris, October 1624

It was Aramis that found Athos sat in his room, pistol in one hand and a half-empty bottle of wine in the other. He had grown friendly with the quiet, mysterious man, but he had always trusted Porthos' judgement, and liked to think that Porthos thought the same of him. However, the man had seemed aloof the past few days, troubled by something, and both had been concerned – there had always been an air of desperation to the man.  
He found Athos on his bed, mumbling something or other about a woman – he gathered, a dead lover. Aramis understood his pain – he too had lost one that he had loved, although he had been much younger. And this was obviously quite recent.  
“'m sorry, my love, 'm s'ry.........can't do this, too hard.......better'ff w'out me......” This was not good.  
“Athos?” Aramis' voice was hesitant. The man looked up, and Aramis felt his jaw clench when he saw the man's face; he looked dead, eyes sunken and red, skin pale as the shirt he was wearing.  
“Go 'way, leave m'alone.”  
“I'm not going anywhere until you promise me that you won't do anything stupid.”  
“I won't do anything stupid.” He stopped slurring for a moment, before, sinking backwards. Aramis walked over and asked him one question.  
“What are you going to do?”  
“Noth-nothing.......too much of a coward.”  
“Athos, listen to me; you are not a coward. You are one of the bravest men I know.”  
“But-”  
“No buts.” Aramis gently took the weapon away from him, while Athos began to fall unconscious.  
“Gun.......”  
“No pistols for you tonight? Who knows what damage you'd do?” The joke was tinged with worry.  
But Athos was already asleep, snoring like a drunkard.  
Aramis hoped that tonight was just an alcohol fuelled spontaneity.  
He would talk to Porthos in the morning, but for now he settled himself into a chair and kept an eye on his newest friend.

Paris, March 1625

It was Aramis who presented Athos with his pauldron and hat. The man had been on probation, as was usual for those training to be a Musketeer, and he felt the best he had ever since the incident at what had been his home. Now he had a new home, with friends he knew he could count on- Porthos and Aramis were able to count themselves among those he could trust, a very small number. Aramis had smiled as he handed him his uniform, and Athos had smiled back – it was small, but definitely there. He was coping. He could do this. The drinking had become less frequent, although there were days that he felt like he was being eaten alive by the black dog on his shoulder, which at the moment felt more like a pup. He could breathe, and was looking forward to some time with his friends.  
The three of them decided to celebrate at the public house where Athos had met Porthos, almost a year to the day. Athos wondered at how much had changed in those few months, and he was immensely grateful. He drank well, but didn't quite succeed at drinking the others under the table; instead, they drank their way over to the piano, where they sang ditties picked up from the sailors and made up their own on the way. Athos watched them, enjoying their pleasure, before deciding that enough was enough and it was time to go to rest; after all, he was on guard duty the next morning.  
Aramis saw him getting up to leave, and began to try and catch him, but fell over in the process, accidentally dragging Porthos and a few others with him, leaving them to collapse through a table, much to the owner's chagrin. Athos heard a strange barking sound, before realising that it was his own laughter. He revelled in the ecstasy that came with it, before sobering up and heading back to his own quarters.  
And for the first night since joining them, he had no nightmares.

Paris, June 1625

Athos was with Porthos when he heard about the attack in Savoy – twenty dead musketeers, and one fugitive. Athos wished he felt worse, but there was only one person he really cared about, and that was Aramis. He had been one of the few to go, and when he received the news, the first thing that had crossed his mind was that it wasn't Aramis. It couldn't be. If there was such a thing as God or destiny, surely it wouldn't be this cruel to take him away.  
M. de Treville told them that the messenger was late, and that the lone survivor would arrive that same evening, and those few hours were among the longest that Athos had ever experienced.  
“Porthos, it won't be him,” he said when his friend began his second bottle, his hands shaking, “he's too in love with himself to die.”  
Porthos smiled weakly. “But there was many other Musketeers with him. What if-”  
Athos slammed his hand down. “No ifs, no buts. He's. Coming. Back.” He had to.  
“Anyway, how much have you had? It's more than me. What are you so worried about?”  
“Not worried, grieving.”  
“Who?”  
“I shouldn't say.”  
“I told you everything about Le Court Des Miracles. It's the least you can do. Trust me.”  
Then the alcohol swam to Athos' brain. “I loved a woman once. She died.”  
“Oh. Well, that's never pleasant.” Poor old Porthos, he was never good with affairs of the heart.  
“By my hand.”  
“Surely not!”  
“She was a criminal. She killed my brother. So I had her hung.” Athos was amazed at how steady his voice was.”  
“Now look here, Athos, you didn't do anything wrong. You defended your brother. I'd've done the same for my Flea......” He trailed off at the sound of a cart entering the garrison. And the man beside it was.....  
“Aramis! Oh thank God!” Porthos ran over, but Aramis didn't see him, his eyes dead and his head bandaged.  
“Porthos.....” Athos reached out to his friend, gripping his arm. “Give him a moment. He's not quite ready.  
Aramis walked past them, leading the horses and cart to the stables, before having a quick meeting with the captain. He left the office ten minutes after entering, and headed straight back to his apartments, completely ignoring his friends, who followed him. He left the door open while going upstairs, and they followed him, determined to treat his wound and not let him be any more alone than he had to be. They found him in a ball in the corner next to his bed, eyes glassy, silent tears staining his face. He shook violently, soaked through with rain, grief, and guilt, and didn't acknowledge their entrance until Porthos said his name. “Aramis.”  
He looked up, and immediately hid his face again, before mumbling, “I'm pathetic.”  
Athos knelt next to him, removing his hat and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “There was nothing that could be done. But you did all I could ever ask you to do. Get injured, fine. But don't you ever die on me, my friend. Or Porthos, for that matter. He might be a tad brutish, but he cares about you more than I do, if that's possible.”  
“But they all died, and I lived.” Ah, survivor's guilt.  
“Exactly. You lived. And don't ever regret it. Besides, half of the womenfolk of Paris have yet to now the pleasures of your bed.” This raised a small smile, coupled with a sob. Porthos helped carry him to the bed, before pulling off his jacket and boots. If Aramis had been more himself, he would have made a joke about Porthos trying to get him into bed. But in his state he simply lay down in his shirt and trousers, before falling into a fitful sleep. Athos went to the door, with Porthos behind him, when they heard a muffled, “Stay. D'n't leav'me. Pl'se.”  
They removed their coats and sat in Aramis' chairs, watching him until the sun came up, telling them that a new day had come.

Paris, January 1626

Of course Athos had managed to get himself injured in such a simple fight. He cursed himself for not noticing the hidden thief behind the tree, for turning his back on him. He hissed when Aramis moved his shirt away from the wound, a relatively superficial stab wound from a dagger no larger than a letter opener. However, it hurt like hell.  
“This requires stitching, and soon.” Ah Aramis, the ever useful field healer.  
“Of course it does. How soon can you do it?” Athos hissed again as the wound was poked by his surgeon's cold fingers.  
“There's an inn about half a mile up the road. You should make it that far without too much pain. Here, chew this.” He was presented with a piece of tree bark, and pulled a face at Aramis. “Trust me. It'll help.”  
Amazingly, it did. They arrived at the inn, and Athos was immediately laid down, while Aramis got his stitching kit together.  
“Now this may sting.....” was the last thing Athos heard before he.......passed out, shamefully. He may have chewed too much of that willow bark.  
He came to, noticing a dull ache in his side before realising that Aramis and Porthos were watching him, smirking.  
“What is it with you two?” Athos scowled, only making them laugh.  
“Well, with girls, it takes a little more than a simple touch on the side to make their eyes roll back in their heads.....” and suddenly they were in hysterics, tears running down both their faces.  
Athos grunted, rolled over painfully, and faced the wall.  
He was in no mood for dealing with children wearing hats and carrying swords.

Pantin, June 1626

This time it was Porthos who got injured, and he was doing his usual trick of howling while Aramis checked him out.  
“Hell's Bells does this hurt!”  
“Porthos, it's not really that bad.”  
“It is, it is, it hurts!” Athos was getting quite annoyed.  
Every time Porthos needed stitches, he seemed to turn into a toddler, barely old enough to stop wearing cloths. And this time, Athos had an idea.  
“Porthos, my friend, look at me.” Porthos obeyed, only to be punched hard enough in the face to knock him out, his head bouncing off the table. Aramis looked at him in wonder, before saying, “Why didn't I think of that?”  
“Because you got all the beauty, Aramis, while I got the brains.”  
And on that note, Athos walked out to check on their horses.

Paris, December 1626

It was snowing, so Athos decided to go for a walk. He'd had a bad few days, drink wise, and as a result needed some time to clear his head. However, he had not expected to be run into by a scared young woman. She was unsuitably dressed for the weather, and looked rather like a small prey animal, like a mouse. She flinched when she ran into him, and tried to run off, but he caught her gently and swung her round. She was a pretty young thing – red curls and a voracious spirit, although she was much too young for him to admire.  
“Hang on there, madamoiselle, why are you in such a hurry?”  
“I have to get away. I can't go through with this!”  
“What is 'this'?” He raised his eyebrows, inviting her to carry on.  
“My father, he wants me to marry M. Bonacieux, but I'm scared; I don't want to marry, I want to be free and be able to fight with a sword and pistol like the Musketeers!” Ah, she had the spirit of a wild filly, this girl.  
“What's your name, my dear?” The least he could do was calm her nerves- heaven knows his were jangly enough.  
“Constance. I didn't mean to run into you, messieur, but please, let me go- I have to get away.”  
“Calm down, calm down. How old are you?”  
“I am eighteen, messieur. Why do you ask?” Eighteen? The girl barely looked sixteen!  
“Because you can't just run away from your problems. It never goes well.” God, how he knew that. “You would be better off going home to your father and mother, where you won't catch your death of cold.”  
“But-”  
“No buts. And if you need someone to talk to, my name is Athos; I'm a Musketeer. I swear I will help you if need be.”  
“Thank you, messieur.”  
“Now, go home.” He kissed her hand and walked her home, offering her back to the safety of her parents' home.  
That girl would prove to be a handful for any husband, he though, as he left for the garrison.

La Fère, April 1627

Athos had no idea why he had agreed to return to this godforsaken place. The ghosts of his past still floating around him, and he vowed never to come back, ever again. The estates required a new manager, and Athos had taken leave to check the manor and its grounds, planning to return as quickly as possible.  
However, it wasn't quite as easy as that.  
The former servants surrounded him, demanding to know why he'd left so suddenly, and he couldn't handle it. That was the first night he got drunk in five months.  
He invaded the wine cellar, pulling out three different red wines, each older and more potent than the one before it, and he drank them in quick succession. He knew it was stupid, but all he could see was the forget-me-nots coating the grass outside, the blue looking almost white in the moonlight.  
He took three days to sober up, drinking bottle after bottle, before heading back to the garrison, the matter sorted.  
His friends noticed there was something off, but they knew not to pry, and for that he was eternally grateful.  
It took him two weeks to stop drinking nightly again, better than last time by far.

Paris, November 1627

Athos had no idea why he hadn't shut the damned window.  
It was November, and it was cold, but he was two comfortable under his sheepskin and wool blankets, and besides, he'd slept in colder (Aramis would steal all the blankets when they were riding invisibly, unable to stop in an inn; he and Porthos often ended up lying as close to the fire as possible while Aramis did a good impression of a snoring pile of blankets). It was then that the cat walked in.  
It was a pretty cat, ginger with eyes of two different colours, and it decided that here was the most comfortable place in the whole of Paris. Athos groaned audibly and got up to shut the window. He turned, and saw the cat had claimed his bed, curled into a ball on his pillow. He smiled despite himself, and whispered, “well, I suppose one night couldn't hurt” to himself before moving the cat and lying down again.  
He woke up with a blue eye and a green eye staring at him, licking his face, and a familiar voice saying, “well, well, it looks like you've gained a new friend.”  
That night is the first of many he shares with the cat, which is affectionately named Cathos by the rest of the guard, and it becomes a mascot of sorts.  
But the cat always comes home with Athos at the end of the day, who scratches it on the head before crawling into bed.

Paris, August 1628

Their last task had been a difficult one, and long, and as a result Treville had decided that the boys had earned a good long rest. They had been threatened with a court marshal if they showed up anywhere near the garrison for a week, and a good smack on the head within two, but they were determined to stay together and do something fun. The first day was spent on a pub crawl, all the way around Paris. They had sung, and danced, and Athos had begun to feel a little bit more human with every hour they spent without a duty.  
The next day they spent their days alone, Athos with some philosophy reading, Aramis spent the day with Adele doing god-knows-what, and Porthos.....well, Porthos was gambling like a madman. They did however, all go to Aramis' flat in the evening, and spent the day joking and enjoying each other's company.  
By the third day, however, they were quite bored. Athos could feel a familiar sentiment settling over him, leaving him antsy and itching for a drink. Aramis was oversexed, and unable to move, while Porthos was feeling his pockets being empty. They had all stayed at Aramis', unwilling to walk through Paris so early in the morning, and had instead resorted to massive, deep conversations.  
Porthos spoke more about his past in Le Court, while Aramis volunteered more about his childhood as the child of a French father and Spanish mother; he was a truly remarkable individual, thought Athos, before his mind took more of a darker turn.  
He had hoped that he had dealt with the event, but now he realised that he had bottled it up instead of dealing- he only noticed when his hands started to shake, and Porthos noticed when he started to gasp in breath, proceeding to run over to him, while Aramis, unknowing of his past, remained away, seemingly consumed by his own thoughts.  
“Hey, hey, Athos, look at me.” He raised his eyes and cringed, unsure of his worthiness of this contact. “No, I know that look. This'll go away, alright? C'mon, deep breaths, in, out, in, out, yeah that's good, calm down.......you wanna help me Aramis?”  
“I'm....not good with anxieties, Porthos, you know that.”  
“That's mine, and I'm just trouble. Just come keep an eye on him while I go out on the street.”  
Aramis walked over, placing his hands on both of Athos' shoulders, helping while the man let himself be vulnerable, unlike his usual composure. “Porthos mentioned women trouble. Did she die, Athos?”  
All he could do was nod. “Okay then, now, there was nothing wrong with anything that you did, alright? Come on, breathe in, breathe out, copy me.” His breathing slowed as he watched Aramis, his heart slowing quickly.  
When he had recovered, he breathed. “Thank you, Aramis.”  
“Don't thank me, you'd do the same.”  
Athos nodded.  
The next ten days passed quickly then, and all three were glad to be back when they returned.

Roche-Guyon, May 1629

Athos blamed himself for what had happened.  
They had been on a mass exercise, attempting to bring down a large assassin ring, when they were ambushed in the middle of the countryside. There had been seven of them, and two of them were injured, and one of their number killed. Du Noblesse, a newer member of their company, had been run through with a newer, efficient weapon, one that had rarely been seen around France, more common in England.  
When they returned, Athos' first destination following their debriefing was the nearest tavern. The black dog returned, the size of a mountain dog now rather than simply a minor interference; he felt like he was drowning, and he was feeling deeper into the hole than he had for four years.  
It was Aramis again who found him that night, hand in his hair, tears falling into the wine left on the table. It was Aramis who carried him home and watched him, stopping him from thrashing the walls during the nightmares that threatened him.  
The next morning, he awoke, his head pulsing like hooves on a cobble street, and he spotted Aramis, his hat covering his eyes, slumped in the chair in a deep sleep. The black dog still had its claws in him, but now it was weaker, watery.  
He got up and dunked his head in the bucket, the only method he'd found to cure the headache, and dressed himself, before slapping Aramis on the shoulder, getting him up to patrol. Whenever he thought he wasn't looking, Aramis would shoot a worried glance at him, making him feel all the more self-conscious.  
This pattern went on for a week. Work, drink, pass out, do it all again. And eventually, Porthos noticed, and they intervened, stopping him from going out, letting him drink when his hands shook, listening to him rant and rave in his sleep about the monsters in his head.  
The guilt threatened to eat him alive, weeks after the drinking settled, and he refused to sleep, instead waiting until pure exhaustion took him- that was the only way he slept soundly. He would loo at his reflection in the mirror, and would struggle not to punch it with his bare fist. He looked haggard, ill, tired......he looked like he was about to finish.  
It took three more weeks to break the surface, and even then there was tension.

Paris, November 1629

Today had been a good day.  
Athos had been able to save the life of a woman, threatened by the men after her husband. He finally felt he had some worth, was worthy of something other than a life of misery and heartache. He had been especially helped by this purely because he had taken so long to recover from the events in May, particularly as the young man had been related to him, albeit distantly, through his mother. He had felt responsible, and as a result had slipped.  
He had been doing well, recently. Little alcohol since July had given him time to focus on eating and exercising, and as a result his body was in a fine state of finesse. He felt better, knowing he didn't look completely like a drunkard. He'd even had time to help his friends, first Aramis through the delayed investigation into the Savoy incident, and then Porthos, when he had worked through an issue with the Courts, where a young boy had nearly been executed for a petty crime against the Cardinal; all this had done was intensify his dislike for the man who basically controlled France with the king as a puppet.  
He still had problems, of course- they never went away, just got greater or smaller depending on the season, the time of day.....there was no rhyme or reason. However, for the first time in a long time he saw a glimmer at the end of the long, dark tunnel he'd been enduring, and he knew that he would get through it.

Paris, May 1630

Athos was pleased when he met the young d'Artagnan. Not because he was happy to be threatened with murder, of course, but because he knew that he'd found a kindred spirit. The boy was grieving, obviously, and blaming his father's death on himself – blame was something that Athos knew all too well. Even in front of the firing squad he'd been apologising to his brother, his parents, his wife, for all of the actions he'd done......the crimes he'd committed. But in d'Artagnan, he saw someone he could trust.  
It seemed to him almost that the young Gascon was something that had been missing from their little unit, which Athos had come to think of as his family. The boy idolised him, it was clear, and he definitely had the makings of a Musketeer in him- that much was obvious. But Athos also felt that he would be able to trust the young man in a variety of situations, just as much as he could his brothers-in-arms. They were a family, his family, not just his friends anymore, and he no longer needed proof that he was cared for.  
When d'Artagnan pulled him out of his burning family home, he had confessed more to him than he ever had to Porthos and Aramis, but he was unsure why. And when he had sworn him to secrecy, he knew he could trust him.  
And just like that, Athos came to realise that he might be flawed, broken, a drunk with many scars and a black dog on his back, but he would never be alone again.


End file.
